dmseay

silence…
quiet between you and me…
wanting to hear…
shouts…whispers…
notes plucked on an old stand-up bass…
keys stroked by Bill Evans…punches from McCoy…the moans of Keith Jarrett…
calling-out to Mingus…calling-out to Mingus…

but there is silence…
you are not speaking…
nor laughing…
and there is no jazz…
no poetry read aloud in mid-dim light….
night-time gets lonely…

no no no kisses in my ear….
nothing wet upon lips…
just quiet….too quiet…
this rented room longs for you….
amongst checked-out library books…old sweatshirts….wilted lamp posts…ripened bananas….day old coffee…
you are not here…

listen…
your voice is within…
jazz is in the soul…
and kisses remembered…
you were not in love huh…
tis a pity…

you could’ve fooled me….

she wails…
wandering ‘cross america…
Decatur…Toledo…Pittsburgh…Pueblo…the Salton Sea…
she wails….

not knowing where to port…
station to station…
never slowing down…
desperately wanting home…

thought she’d come upon safety in Tuepelo….or was it Fayetteville…maybe Reno…
just ‘nother dream in the ‘merican night…
San Fransisco…New York…’lanta….nothing…nocturnal wishes never true…just sketches…

and we look for home…we look for home…we look….
wailing the whole time…
pretzels in a bar- car…over-priced concessions….
buy me a beer Joe…
tis my last dime…

she wails…
like lovers from past…
women i thought…i thought…
running-away in the thick of it….always an escape clause…

will this train ever find me a home…
amongst the blacks…latinos…Chinamen…old Irish cops on barstools…petty thieves…crazies…Jews and constant Catholics…
will this train ever find me a home….

she wails…
wandering ‘cross america…
Decatur…Toledo…Pittsburgh…Pueblo…the Salton Sea…
she wails…

saw you at the library….
looking at Tom Clancy books…
John Grisham…
browsing in shit….

stuck-out like lavender…
emerald eyes…
black ink hair….straightened i believe…
a pink sweater….

was looking at pics of John and Tom….
what dashing literary heroes…
John…the warm southern air…
Tom…that tough fighting fuck…

caught you red-handed…
cheating on me…
thought you were better than that….
what have they got…

i’m onto you…
don’t buy another book….
take my pictures down…
these bedtime stories are over…

see ya’ ’round kid…
and when John drops you like a hot southern yam….
Tom tells you he needs more fight….something…kinky…
don’t come to my little shop of whores…

this is not right…

what…

this deal…lack of negotiation…

no-one talks anymore…

right….blah blah this…blah blah that…

in the form of a text…

yes…bingo…like we’re hiding…

correct….hiding…from truth…fears…love….anger…ourselves…

yes…and…yes…that is the point…we hide from ourselves…

words can lie…

right…a face…

can tell it right off the bat…the get-go….

and…

that is that…

yes…this is business…

text…email…notes…a memo…

nothing concrete…

all suspect…

yes…

yes….

so…

what choice…

drop it…

drop it…

yes…make this go away…

how….

turn off the phone…

turn off…

yes…the phone…

and…

disappear…

just disappear….

uh huh…

be gone…

O.K. …

now…this is done…

yeah….

next client…

tis dark…
6 a.m. …
only a streetlamp shines…
red tail-lights float-by…
sound of a car starting with a voice saying…,fuck it’s cold….

hear cars drive up and down a two way street…
gravel crackles in driveways…
a cat cries out…
dumpster lids are flipped in the wind…
my phone has not rung…

and all night the sounds of the city rushed through my rented room…
cop cars…
ambulances…
fire trucks….but not your voice….

then there was silence…
nothing…
no sound…
too quiet….
come-on phone….ring….

tis dark…
6 a.m. …
only a streetlamp shines…
sound of a car starting with a voice saying…,fuck it’s cold…

watched the old man stumble…
tripping over barking dogs…
feet swollen…
shit-stained boxers…

he mumbled…
something about pain…
always hurting…
complaining…

all alone…
sun hidden…
a can of Pepsi…
pissed-on pads…

and i remember thinking…
don’t let this happen to you…
avoid the unavoidable…
just pull the trigger…

getting soft…
hit the road….
amongst vagabonds…
whores…
cops on the take…
garbage men at dawn…

Greek diners at 3 a.m. …
guys with a watch to sell…
pushers and pimps…
flashing neons…
hustlers making eyes…
a well-groomed businessman…

Lexington Avenue…
Punjab palaces…
buffets in cellars…
kids on cells making transactions…
crazies killing time….
gotta light…

stealing sugar packets at Starbucks…
figuring out bathroom codes…
stalls with holes…
peek-a-boo-i-see-you…..
commerce commerce commerce…
america’s shining light…

getting soft…
hit the road…
amongst vagabonds…
whores…
cops on the take…
garbage men at dawn…

gunshots…
shelters…
parking garages…
alleys…
Central Park…
Port Authority…

a bench by the Hudson…
East River…
Union Square…
Madison Square…
a junkie is a junkie is a junkie is a junkie…
city take me in…

less comfort…
more writing…
starve awhile…
lose this flesh…
scrape your knuckles…
beware of the boys in blue…

getting soft…
hit the road…
amongst vagabonds….
whores…
cops on the take…
garbage men at dawn….

I’m tellin’ ya they was joined at the heads…

no dad…

yea…mom had twins an’ they both died at birth…

you sure pop…

there were two seperate headstones…

uh huh…

two seperate caskets…

didn’t know ‘ bout this….

no…wait…thats not right…

what then….

there were twins…an’ one had too weak a heart to survive…only Johnny Ray lived…

no dad…

yea…thats what happened….

no pop….Johnny Ray was born alone….it was just Johnny Ray….wasn’t a twin…

I’m sure…

mom had one stillborn…that was it…all I knew about…

boy…there’s some things you don’t know…

that may be pop….that may be…

hold on…she had triplets…an’ two was joined at the head…

dad…

an’ Johnny Ray was the lone survivor….

O.K. pop….O.K. ….

I only speak the truth….where is mom…

she’s gone dad…

you don’t say…

yep….

she done joined them two up in heaven….

trashcans opened up and down the street…
madmen seeking shelter….
heat rising from the underbelly of the city…
while spells are cast upon those unaware…

they who walk this town from sun-up to sun-down…
seeking refuge in abandoned cars…all night bus services…subway trains rattle off rails to a beat…beat…beat…
under trees in Central Park we lay in await of you dear policeman…come…carry us away to cell number 6….a holding tank will do just fine…

and the Port Authority bustles with hookers…hustlers…petty thieves….pedestrians…panty sniffers….Jerseyites drunkenly running to a train they’ll never catch…
while tourists drink craft beers…take-in lights cameras actions of those that dare to glare into the midnight sky high above in search of what…what….
perhaps a piece of peace….maybe a snowflake to tease the tongue….or maybe a god to call them home…

but there is no home….no hope…
just the rummaging of trashcans opened up and down the street…
madmen seeking shelter….
heat rising from the underbelly of the city…
while spells are cast upon those unaware….

an old plaid couch…
clay pitchers upon cabinets…
paintings of farm houses…
a pie safe…

olive hat bought in Switzerland…
Amish quilts…
Ball glass jars of blue…
packets of yeast…

rusted sausage grinder…
wooden benches…carved-in detail…
bacon drippings collected…
grandfather clocks…a cuckoo…

cast-iron skillets…
boxes of Jiffy cornbread mix…
Yankee candles…
black-n-white photos…

where’d she go…

transcended pop…

transcended….

yes…

to where…

don’t know…

don’t know…

no dad…

she’s not in back getting dressed…

‘fraid not…

just as well…

yea…

she hated clothes…

wooden boxes stacked…
old crates…
brass lamps…
a husband…